"We are," responded both principals.
"One—two—three—fire!" intoned the Russian baron.
Two flashes, a simultaneous report, and the Count de Volaski leaped into the air and fell down, with a heavy thud, upon his face!
The seconds hastened to raise the fallen man. The duke stood panic-stricken for an instant, and then followed them.
The unfortunate count lay in a tumbled, huddled, shapeless heap, with his head bent under him. Not a drop of blood was to be seen on his person or clothing. The Russian baron raised him up. There was a gasp, a momentary flutter of the lips and eyelids, and all was still.
The colonel hurried off to the carriage to call the surgeon.
The duke stood gazing on his murdered foe, aghast at his own deed and feeling the brand of Cain upon his brow, notwithstanding that he had acted in accordance with the "code of honor."
The surgeon came in haste with his box of instruments in his hands, and the roll of linen under his arm.
He put these articles on the ground, and knelt down to examine his subject; for the body of the count was only a subject now, and not a patient.
After a careful investigation, the surgeon arose and pronounced his verdict.